On The Rocks (2 page)

“I believe so, yes.”

“Good,” Abrahan patted the man’s cheek.
“That’s good,
maninho
. Because you will find this woman, and
you will bring her to me.”

A chuckle bubbled into Sanzio’s throat.
“There are billions of people on the planet, half of them
women.”

“I don’t want you to bring half the women on
the planet. Just one.”

“Impossible.”

Abrahan sandwiched Sanzio’s head in his
fists and brought their foreheads to touch. “Once again, you’re not
using words I want to hear right now, Zio.”

Brow furrowed and nostrils flared, Abrahan
returned to Vasco. Nodded curtly to the enforcer pinning his skull.
The man released him, and Vasco’s sobs grew louder. His begging
sped up.

Abrahan sank into a crouch. Knife and ear
still with him, he hooked Vasco’s huge face by the chin. Tipped it
up so they were eye level.

“Shhh… shhhh. Calm, my friend, or you’ll
bleed out. You’ve already made a mess of my floor.” He smoothed the
heel of his fist over that matted hair. “Shhhh… The pain is over
now.

“The ear is for your failure.”

“But I didn’t—”

Abrahan shushed him firmly. “I entrusted
Zio’s care to you, and you failed,” Abrahan whispered. “But, for
your service, you have my word you will keep your other ear.” At
the flash of fear in Vasco’s eyes he amended, “And everything
else.”

Vasco whimpered. “
Obrigado
, Abrahan.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Abrahan nodded to his men.

The two beefy guards dragged Vasco from
Abrahan’s sight.

And over to the open panel of walls.

Vasco’s eyes widened. He shook his
blood-soaked head. “No. Noooo!
Pleeeease!
”

Legs scrabbling, his shoes squeaked against
the slick marble, seeking purchase to no avail. Those screams,
those annoying, high-pitched screams came back with such fervor
they seemed to silence the four winds said to be housed on these
cliffs.

With a crook of his fingers, Abrahan
motioned for Sanzio to join him. Side by side, they followed the
trio. At the wide portal, Abrahan threw an arm around Sanzio’s neck
to ensure the weaker man didn’t look away.

This had to be done.

The message had to be sent. Perhaps now Zio
would understand that missteps and foolish mistakes would not be
tolerated. Not when they were so close.

And he wouldn’t leave Vasco alive to let the
man’s rage over the cropping fester.

Abrahan had firsthand experience with
that.

Another nod.

In one coordinated move, the guards reared
back and hoisted the man out of the office. Gravity caught on fast,
and Vasco’s suit billowed all around him as he sliced through the
air. He screamed and clawed and fought all the way down. His body
slammed against the half-submerged rocks at the base of the cliff,
and the noise snipped off abruptly.

It took the sea four tries to swallow him
completely. Even then, the waves kept lapping at the rocks, licking
and licking until the slate was clean.

Sanzio gulped so hard Abrahan could feel it.
Same way he felt the other man shaking in his own skin. Fingers
digging into Sanzio’s chin, he jerked it around so their eyes
met.

“A man’s life was just traded for yours. A
man more loyal and more worthwhile to me than you ever have
been.”

Scowling, Sanzio pulled his face away.
“Blood is thicker than water,
mano
.”

“Yes, and that we share it is all that saves
your ear from my blade. So you will find this woman and ensure she
is not a threat. But make no mistake, if you’ve ruined this deal
with Metis, you will leave my presence in the same expedient manner
Vasco just did.”

Abrahan flung the severed ear out the
window, reuniting it with its owner somewhere out in the sea. He
motioned toward the endless stretch of brilliant blue. “As you can
see, little brother, enough water and blood’s not so thick at
all.”

August 5
^th

Washington, DC

“WHAT’S IN IT for me?”

Bill Connolly stared out the back window of
the historic home in DC’s Dupont Circle, wholly uninspired by the
view. The behemoth, Federal-style building took up a good portion
of the block. Three stories total. Brick facade. Raised-panel
shutters bracketing huge picture windows. Had to be north of four
million dollars easy.

And not a single tree in the backyard.

No, the idiot who lived in the place before
the idiot now occupying it thought a swimming pool and outdoor
kitchen and edge-to-edge slate tiles would be much better than half
an acre of God’s own grass and shrubbery.

That was DC, wasn’t it? A bunch of new guys
came in spouting modernity over tradition. Ripped out the roots
that made the country strong and left behind a moldering water hole
no one wanted to clean, and a rusted-over grill that never got any
use. Besides, this wasn’t California or Texas, where water from the
sky was a one-off. No, no. The District got snow and rain whenever
it damned well pleased. So someone was
bound
to slip and
crack a skull on those fancy tiles.

Then men like Bill would have to come in and
scrub off the blood...

With a quiet sigh, Bill plugged the tip of
his cane into the carpet’s plush crimson pile and turned to eye the
man at the wet bar across the room. Carl Wheaton poured two fingers
of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. Motioned toward Bill with the
decanter.

Not his drink of choice. For the last nine
months, Bill only got drunk on Mylanta for the ulcer chewing away
his stomach lining. Apple juice could double him over, so hard
liquor might be pushing it. Then again, it was ten in the morning
and Wheaton was already deep in his cups. A little nip might put
the other man at ease.

He nodded.

“Rocks?” Wheaton asked.

“No.” No sense complicating matters.

Wheaton did the honors, and then padded
across the room. Handing Bill the lowball glass, he motioned to the
overstuffed couch and dropped into the matching love seat, the
leather squeaking under his weight. A smile curled his thin lips as
he tossed one lean arm over the back of the chair; all casual like
this was a social call. But the other hand held that drink of his
in a white-knuckled grip.

“So…?” Bill prompted.

“You’ve been here all of three minutes and
already you’re asking me for something.”

“Should we go through the bullshit
formalities? Nice place, Carl. Love the crown molding and,” he
motioned toward a wall covered in picture frames with his cane,
“beige-on-beige paint. Or is that ecru?”

Wheaton snorted. “Guess we’ve known each
other too long.”

Partially true. They’d met many years ago
through a mutual associate. Wheaton was just an up-and-coming
senator with boyish good looks whose unique talent was flaunting a
charming smile while riding his daddy’s coattails.

For the last eight years this special
snowflake had served on various committees and subcommittees, but
none as important as his three current posts: The US Senate
Committee on Appropriations, The Senate Subcommittee on Defense,
and The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. In short, Carl
Wheaton had a hand in determining the budget for the CIA —well,
part of the budget. The Agency usually found a way to make ends
meet when Washington wouldn’t— and he was also one of the
dunderheads on the Hill who fine-toothed the practices of the many
Intelligence agencies that kept the country safe. Wheaton banged
the transparency drum loud and long to appeal to constituents who
really didn’t want to know the true cost of that safety they so
cherished.

As for Bill? Apart from his employment with
the CIA, Wheaton didn’t know Bill at all.

Bill eased onto the couch and took a
tentative sip of his drink. The tepid liquid burned his throat raw,
but once the drop hit his gut the fire he expected was just a low
simmer. Progress?

“You called me, Congressman. I’m assuming
for a favor. Before we get into what that favor is, it’s best you
know up front it’ll cost you more than a drop of liquor.”

Wheaton’s gaze shifted to the coffee table.
In the center, a triangular display case housed a US flag in the
traditional tri-cornered hat fold, white stars on a field of blue
visible through the glass front. Belonged to his brother-in-law,
Edward, who’d died in ‘Nam. Beside it, two display boxes, each
protecting accrued honors, also Ed’s. One box held a posthumous
Military Cross, and the other, patches from his time with the Boy
Scouts and his Eagle Scout medal.

As patriotic as the display was, Wheaton’s
focus was on something else: the manila envelope resting on the
burled wood. Instead of taking the bait, Bill took another sip.

Wheaton leaned forward and braced his elbows
on his spread knees. A harsh breath hissed through his teeth. “I’ve
got—”

“Honey?” The sweet voice neutered his words.
“Honey, your— Oh! Hello.”

Bill twisted toward the newcomer, eyeing her
over his shoulder. She was pretty in a simple way, with short brown
hair that framed her round face. Her makeup was soft, giving her an
open, honest appearance that enhanced her natural beauty rather
than attempting to conceal her age — mid- to late fifties, if Bill
had to guess. A single strand of pearls circled her neck, the
perfect compliment for the petal pink sweater and cream slacks.

“I didn’t know you had company.” She rounded
the couch, hand extended. “Betty.”

Bill knew that.

He got to his feet unassisted. “Paul
Smith.”

Their palms fused, and then Betty brought
her other hand up to clasp his much larger one, like she was
sealing the moment into his flesh.

Classic campaign two-hand shake. Firm. Warm.
Her next words would be—

“So very good to meet you, Paul.”

Right on cue.

“Pleasure’s mine, Mrs. Wheaton.”

Betty hit him with a practiced smile that
made her cheeks bunch and her brown eyes twinkle. Her head tipped
ever so slightly to the right, not too rigid, not too
condescending. The Goldilocks zone of motherly nurturing, enhancing
the sincerity of words she repeated to everyone with a heartbeat.
If he left the room right now and came back a minute later, Bill
could probably get away with introducing himself as Jesus of
Nazareth, and Betty would smile and say, “So very good to meet you,
Jesus,” without pausing to ask the time and location of the
Rapture.

Because that was DC, too. People always in
campaign mode, always lobbying. Friend and foe were interchangeable
terms in the nation’s capital, so best to be nice to everyone
regardless of political affiliation. Plus the gossip circles in the
district were more vicious than the 24-hour news shows. A negative
word, a whisper of bad manners, or an attitude other than
cheerleader-perky could end up wrecking a career.

Doubly so for a woman whose husband was
making a run at a house with actual trees in the backyard.

The
House, in fact.

Brow knit, Bill sniffed the air. Tipped his
head to mirror hers. “Cinnamon and… nutmeg. Is that apple pie I
smell?”

“It sure is!” Betty pulled her hands away
and clapped them in front of her chest. “My mother’s recipe. Best
in the union. Carl just loves it.” She flashed a doting look at her
husband. “Junior and his wife are visiting later, bringing the
grands. Thought I’d whip up a couple. Would you like a slice?”

“Paul won’t be staying long.”

Betty’s focus zipped to the tumbler in her
husband’s hand, and the smile faltered a hair. “Next time then.” To
her husband, “Sorry to interrupt, but Adam’s here to go over the
announcement strategy.”

“I’ll meet him in the parlor in a minute or
two.”

“All right.” Another bright and sparkly from
a nodding Betty. “Exciting times around here, Paul! I sure hope we
can count on your support when the time comes.”

Quite frankly, Bill didn’t care who sat in
the Oval. As long as they signed off on the budget, he and his CRU
would continue to provide the benefits enjoyed by every president
since The Agency’s inception: plausible deniability.

On the other hand, wouldn’t hurt to have the
Commander in Chief in his pocket. After all, when in Rome…

“I’d love nothing more than to see the
Wheatons in the White House,” Bill assured. “Get this country back
on the right track.”

“Oh, I like that. Maybe that can be part of
your campaign slogan, honey!” Betty snapped her fingers and then
splayed them wide, palms out all
big vision moment.
“Carl
Wheaton: what’s
right
for the White House.”

Wheaton’s indulgent smile faded as Betty
left the room and closed the door behind her.

“Christ.” He slammed his glass on the coffee
table and shot to his feet. “I haven’t even announced yet and
already this campaign’s in the shitter.” Pacing away, he forced his
fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “I need your help, Bill.
In the worst possible way, I need your help.”

“Relax, Carl. Can’t be that bad. Always
harder to see the frame when you’re in the picture.”

Wheaton snorted, set his hands on his hips.
“It’s the other way ‘round, actually. Plus,” a big inhale, “you
haven’t seen the pictures…”

Head twisting back and forth on his neck, he
exhaled on a whoosh. “I’ve worked too hard for this, Bill. Too
damned hard. Sacrificed so much and one mistake…”

Bill just stared.

Carl Wheaton was a trust fund baby born to a
Congressman, who was born to an oil magnate, who was born to the
owner of a sugar cane plantation. Not exactly the same as starting
on fries at Mickey D’s, but hey, if he wanted to believe he’d
pulled himself up from the deepest gutter by his well-made
Ferragamos, who was Bill to say otherwise?

Seated again, Bill traded the alcohol for
the manila envelope. Shook the contents out. Blinked once.
Twice.